


The Long Road From Nowhere

by localwitchgoblin



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Mild Gore, Neurodivergent Dragonborn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localwitchgoblin/pseuds/localwitchgoblin
Summary: A series of chapters, vignettes, and ficlets about the adventures of two oddballs: Ravini, the Dovahkiin, and Lucien Flavius, the only person in Skyrim with any sense. Characters and tags will be added over time.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Lucien Flavius
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i decided to write a fic about my modded skyrim playthrough. if you can guess all the mods i use in my game by the end of this, i'll give you a cookie. some liberties are taken with events and canon characters to make them less cardboard-y. thanks for checking this out.

Lucien Flavius was a man of many, many words. Not all of them well thought out, depending on the circumstances, but he could talk with the best of them and found silence without something to distract him to be just a wee bit uncomfortable. Nothing to worry about, generally-- the Imperial City was noisy at the best of times-- but there was something about the stillness around Falkreath that just gave him the willies. 

He was itching to leave, truly. He contemplated going back to Cyrodiil, but that would have cost more coin than he had on him at the moment, as well as a certain amount of dignity. He was here on a quest, after all! Onwards to adventure and all that. Dwemer artefacts weren't going to discover themselves, and he would be thrice damned, tarred,  _ and  _ feathered before he gave up on his dream.... However, the  nearest major city was over a day’s walk away. There were tales of bandits and vicious wildlife populating the roads, and he was hardly an adventurer just yet. His ‘steel,’ as the smith had put it one night in the tavern, had been untested and he was… reluctant, perhaps, to meet an early end. If he had an experienced companion, surely things would go much more smoothly!

Or, so he thought. Day three of approaching those appropriately grizzled enough to be called an ‘adventurer’ had yielded rather pitiful results. Two were just townsfolk he hadn’t seen before, and the other three had told him, in no uncertain terms, where a milkdrinker like him could stick his money. He was coming close to giving up and taking the risk out on the roads when a fresh face walked into the tavern. 

Though, ‘face’ was an exaggeration. The… figure was dressed layer upon layer in rags and furs, bundled so thickly it was a wonder they could walk-- particularly with the bow, quiver, and large pack strapped to their back. A hood and bandana obscured their face, and they walked quickly and quietly up to the counter where the innkeeper stood. 

“Welcome to Dead Man’s Drink,” the innkeeper said her little routine, smiling warmly, “Lemme know if I can getcha anythin’, think I got a clean mug around here somewhere.”

The stranger merely plopped their pack onto the counter, uncinching the top and pulling out bones, organs, and various cuts of meat so fresh he could smell the blood from across the room.

“Oh, you went huntin’ today, huh? Good, just about to run outta the last stock you sold me,” the innkeeper said, as though a pile of viscera wasn’t suddenly dropped right in front of her, “Anything else?”

The stranger nodded, pulling out a large bundle of edible plants and a whole troop of mushrooms he recognized as being rather delicious if cooked properly. The innkeeper’s eyes widened a little at the sight, but she regained composure fairly quickly. She looked over the goods with a keen eye before clapping her hands and smiling a little.

“I’ll give ya a hundred for the lot of it.”

Lucien choked on his drink. A hundred Septiums was almost criminal for all the food the stranger had brought in. The mushrooms alone could have gone for a hundred just from the sheer size of the troop! He half expected them to gather everything up and walk out the door. 

Instead, the stranger pointed to one of the rooms.

“Sure, I’ll let you stay the night, but it’ll come out of the trade. You want anythin’ else?”

The stranger then pointed to a bottle of wine perched on the top shelf of a cabinet. 

The innkeep frowned. “That? That’s Firebrand Wine. You’ll owe me thirty-seven if you want that and the room.”

Thirty-seven Septiums! They had to be a lunatic to--

The stranger nodded, pulling a starved little purse from the bottom of their pack and placing the coins on the counter. Lucien’s jaw nearly hit the floor. 

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya!” the innkeeper smiled like a cat that just ate the canary, “I’ll show you to your room, right this way.”

He watched as the stranger gathered their purse and empty pack, following the innkeeper to the room nestled just next to his. A few moments later, the innkeeper walked out and Lucien’s jaw still hadn’t quite come off the floor. Why hadn’t they haggled for a better price? It was so obvious they were getting ripped off, and yet-- nothing! As far as he could tell, they hadn’t even been surprised! 

Lucien fiddled with his tankard a little, eyes still on the stranger’s door. Despite their inclination to be scammed, it was still clear they could at least handle themself in the wilds. They were also clearly much shorter on coin than he was-- that purse made his own ache secondhand. So, theoretically, all he’d have to do was approach them and make his offer!

He stood-- tripping over the bench and narrowly avoiding a concussion-- and made his way to the room. Just as he was about to grasp the doorknob--

“You might want to knock first, sweetie,” the innkeep called, busying herself with her ill-gotten gains, “Don’t wanna catch an arrow in that pretty face of yours, do ya?”

He paused. And cautiously knocked. 

The stranger answered the door a few moments later, still bundled up in their furs. He couldn’t catch sight of their face, aside from a thin strip of shadowed skin and a pair of shiny wireframe spectacles nestled between the hood and bandana. The firelight reflected brightly off the glass, blocking out their eyes, and he felt a trickle of sweat roll down his neck just looking at them. 

“Erm, excuse me, uh--” he looked them up and down, “--friend! I don’t normally do this, but… uhm, do you have a moment to talk?”

They tilted their head slightly, shifting the hood just enough to show some kind of marking on their forehead. A tattoo? A scar?

“Are you trying to flirt with me?” they asked-- their voice was midrange, androgynous. They had a particular accent-- Dunmeri, maybe? It was rough and--

His brain caught up with him and he felt his face flush. “No! No, no, that-- that wasn’t my intention, not at all! I just meant I have a, er, proposition for you.” 

They raised a dark brow, barely visible between the hood and the wireframes, and he felt his face flush further. 

“No-- not-- not that kind of proposition. I mean that I’d like to… do business with you!” he cringed, “Ah-- not like that! Divines… can we start again?” 

They paused, seeming to gather their thoughts. Then, nodded, and settled against the doorframe with a cross of their arms.

“Right! So,” he cleared his throat and straightened his back, reciting his little speech from memory, “My name is Lucien Flavius. I’m a scientist, philosopher, ameteur wizard, and something of a musician! Though, I suppose that’s more of a hobby.”

He paused to catch his breath and assess his pitch. So far, the stranger hadn’t moved an inch. He couldn’t even catch a glimpse at their eye color, the glare from the firelight reflecting too brightly off the glass. Whether or not they were even listening, he could only guess-- but they hadn’t stopped him at least. Progress?

“I couldn’t help but noticing you seem… how can I put this…” he mumbled, searching for the words, “well acquainted with the less savory side of Skyrim…?” 

“I’ve killed before,” they stated bluntly, “And will most likely do so again. Why?”

“Well, ah--” there was that sweat again, gathering at the nape of his neck and trickling past his collar. He shifted uncomfortably, but managed a nervous smile, “You see, I’m here in Skyrim on an expedition! Academic, mainly. I find the province simply fascinating. The flora, the fauna, the ruins-- both Dwemer and Nordic-- the architecture, the politics….”

The stranger sighed, seemingly annoyed, and he felt it was in his best interests to speed his pitch up. 

“Uh, trouble is, I’m not much of a fighter. I know a few spells and can just about swing a sword, but beyond that I’m pretty much useless in combat. Skyrim’s no place for a, er… ‘milk drinker’ like me, not on my own anyway. So, I’m looking for someone to travel with!” he finished with a clap of his hands.

The stranger shifted again, this time standing up straighter and the glare finally easing off their spectacles. They looked him in the eye, and he was struck by their color. Red. A dark bloody red, from iris to sclera, with large black pupils that threatened to swallow him whole. Definitely a Dunmer. Or part Dunmer. And definitely,  _ definitely  _ going to say no-- 

“It will be dangerous.”

He blinked. That wasn’t a no! “Oh, I know that! But, you see, I’ll have you to protect me! And I’ll certainly pick up a few things in our travels. I’ll even-- I’ll even compensate you!” Oh dear, he was sounding desperate, “Please, just… will you let me tag along?” 

“How much?”

“Oh, uhm,” he calculated in his head how much he had left after this week’s stay in the tavern, “Shall we say… three hundred septiums up front? And I’ll top you off everytime we come across something useful in my resear--”

“Deal,” the stranger said, turning back into their room and grabbing their pack off the floor. They dug out their coin purse, hefting the little bag in their hands, “Will you pay me now?”

“Oh, uhm, yes! Let me just get--” he slipped into the neighboring room and dug around for his purse, quickly counting out the coin. The stranger loomed in the doorway, taking the coins eagerly, and he looked up at them with a smile, “There! Oh, this is going to be quite the adventure!” 

“Yes,” they replied, slipping the money into their purse. It looked dramatically less sad, now that there was something actually in it. 

They stood there in his doorway for a little bit. Awkwardly.

“So, uhm,” he started, chewing his lip, “What’s your name?”

The stranger looked at him, blinking, then back to their purse, “Oh. Ravini.”

“Ravini!” Damn it, he had no idea if that was a feminine or masculine name. Oh, well. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes.”

More awkward standing. They seemed to be counting their coin.

“Erm… so… what now?”

Ravini looked back at him, “You’re paying me. Aren’t you the boss?”

“Oh,” he blinked, and chuckled a little, “Uhm, I don’t think so. Not really the ‘leading’ type, honestly. I was hoping to follow you on your adventures, you see.”

“Then we’re going to sleep.”

“Sleep?”

“Sleep.”

And with that, they turned and walked back to their room, shutting the door behind them. Lucien blinked. He stepped out of his room to knock on their door, but thought better of it when he heard the soft snores inside. Were they really asleep? It was barely past noon!

“You might not want to bother with that one,” the innkeeper called, broom in hand and a knowing smile on her face, “She’s strange.”

“Strange?”  _ She? _

“Y’know,” the innkeeper said with a shrug, “A bit funny in the head. Rarely buys anything here other than bread and wine. Only comes here to sell off food and sleep, usually after getting scammed over at Grey Pine Goods.” 

_ And by you _ , Lucien wanted to add, but thought better of insulting the woman who made his bed and food. He quietly took a seat by the fire while the innkeeper continued. 

“She’s also the reason there’s less of a bandit problem than there used to be. ‘cept on the roads. She doesn’t travel the roads much, apparently.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“Deer know very well to stray far from the roads, but she finds me fresh venison and soup bones every time she comes in,” the innkeep said, putting a fresh mug of ale on the table beside him. He reached for his coin, but she waved him off, “Not to mention all the herbs and pelts she brings into town. I see her selling arms n’ armor to Lod from time to time, so I know she’s running into some bandits out there.”

Lucien blinked at her a little, unable to hide his surprise. 

The innkeeper laughed, “What, a woman can’t know her patrons? How do you think I have all the news in town, eh? Never underestimate my nose for gossip.”

He had to admit, he was a little impressed. It also made him itch with curiosity, “What have you gathered about me, then?”

“Other than what you just said to your companion?” she asked, looking him up and down. She straightened her back and smirked a bit, “You’re a rich boy on the road for the first time. You’re a bit of a coward--” he flushed and frowned, which only made her smirk broaden,“--and you clearly have a lot of learning to do, but I think you’ll be alright. Maybe you n’ that little elf will complement each other, yeah?”

Maybe, but-- “What makes you say that, miss?”

The innkeeper rested her chin against the broom handle, looking over to Ravini’s room, “Not much of a talker, that one. But you-- you’ve at least got manners. Maybe even some sense. Being polite and smart goes much further in Skyrim than people think. It’s not all swordplay and Sovngarde here, y’know?”

He looked at the woman, a sardonic smile on his lips. “It almost sounds like you want me, the milkdrinker, to watch over her.”

She laughed, looking at him with twinkling eyes, “Maybe I do. I’ve grown fond of little elf. She saved the town from some vampires a little bit before you showed up. Kids around here think she’s immortal, but it’s the ones we think are invincible that end up in our graveyards.” 

Lucien gulped a little, taking a nervous swig of his ale. He did not like the sound of that. 

“But don’t let me scare you off with all this talk of graves and vampires,” the innkeeper chuckled, “You should probably head to bed soon. If I know Ravini, she’ll be up before the birds, n’ you’ll want your rest. It’s a long road from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first fic lmao so comments and criticisms are appreciated. thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

She was, in fact, up before the birds. Lucien heard the knock on his door at some ungodly hour in the night, and came face to… 'face' with his new companion, still dressed in his bedclothes. Ravini, herself, was dressed in the same furs Lucien saw last time, her pack and other accoutrements settled on the bench beside her. She was carefully adjusting the straps on the pack when she looked up at him. 

"You ready?" Ravini asked, as though it weren't plainly obvious he wasn't.

"N-- No," he mumbled, scrubbing at his eyes. He squinted at the dying firelight in the center of the room. "What time is it?"

She had the gall to shrug. "Before morning. After midnight." 

He grimaced, thinking of all the ghastly creatures that liked to lurk in the woods at night. Not to mention the tales of werewolves haunting Falkreath… that poor little girl….

“We'll stick to the roads,” Ravini said.

That surprised him. "Why?"

She tilted her head, apparently surprised by  _ him _ , "The moons are new. It's dark out. The roads have lanterns. And you just mentioned the werewolves.”  _ Had he? _ He must have been more tired than he thought, “Do you want to travel the forests?"

"Not unless you do, I suppose," he sighed, scratching his head, “Let me get ready.”

In the few minutes it took for him to dress and pack his things, Ravini had been a whirlwind of motion outside the door. She had readied a small meal of bread, soup, and wild eggs and was working on a second batch by the time he emerged from his room. He raised a brow at her, and she merely pointed at the meal, gesturing for him to eat it. 

He settled down and took a few bites, watching her cook. It was a simple dish, the soup thin but serviceable and the eggs well cooked. The bread turned to crumbs every time he so much as jostled it, but--

“You’re supposed to mix it all together,” she said, settling next to him with her own meal. She did exactly that, sliding the eggs into her soup and crumbling the bread on top. With a few stirs of her spoon, she pulled down her bandana, and he finally caught a glimpse of her profile. 

She was certainly a Dunmer. Blue-grey skin with a splattering of barely-there freckles, full lips tinted slightly purple, and a long nose that curved down towards a sharp tip. He also caught a few glimpses of the marking he saw earlier. A braided design, starting from the center of her forehead and stopping just before her nose, as well as a small sharp mark below her bottom lip.

She stopped mid bite and turned to stare at him, resting her chin in her hand.

He blinked, mouth full and crumbs sticking to his goatee, “Whghth ith ii’?”

“Do you always stare at people?” she asked, bluntly. 

Oh! He swallowed his food and wiped at his mouth, “Oh, no, I just-- I hadn’t seen your face before. I was a little surprised you were--”

“A Dunmer? A woman?”

He winced. “No, uhm, so… so young!” 

She tilted her head a little, “Do humans even know how Dunmeri age works? I am much older than you.”

He scoffed, a little offended, “You don’t know how old I am! We could be the same age!”

“How old are you, then?”

Lucien paused, pushing his soup around a little with his spoon, “...twenty-one summers.” 

She barked a laugh, sharp and raspy, like she wasn’t quite used to laughing. He felt his cheeks flare up in embarrassment, and he huffed-- “Well, how old are you!?”

“Not telling,” she chuckled, shaking her head, “But I’m old enough. Are you?”

“I am a  _ grown man _ , miss,” he said, sounding not at all like what he claimed to be, “Twenty-one is a perfectly good age for men to travel!” 

“I believe you,” she blatantly lied, still smirking, “But, come. Let’s finish our meal and get going.”

He pouted a little, but did as he was told, scarfing down the bread and eggs with swigs from the soup. He finished far more quickly than she did, and found himself sleepily watching her from the corner of his eye as she periodically scanned the room. What she was looking for, he couldn’t say, but there was a practiced ease to it that told him it was most likely habit. The scars on the right side of her face told a story, though. Slash marks across the cheek, under the eye, and over the edge of her lip, all in varying states of healed. 

Just as he was about to ask about them, she stood and placed her dishes in the washing pail by the fire. He soon followed suit, and they were on the road in a matter of moments. 

The skies over Falkreath were alight with stars. He watched them as they walked, trying to navigate by them as he’d learned to in books-- but the skies themselves seemed splattered with little lights and nebulae. He picked out one constellation as The Warrior-- which made sense, it was Last Seed after all-- but the rest… he might as well have made them up for how intelligible they were. 

“Do you know how to navigate by stars?” he asked Ravini. Or, rather, the space where Ravini had  _ been. _

Lucien stopped in the middle of the road, looking about for her-- only for an arrow to pierce the ground between his feet, sending him stumbling onto his ass. He looked up and paled. A large structure loomed over the road, two sentries standing on the bridge that crossed it, and in the starlight, he saw a twinkle of metal--

Another arrow, this one burying itself by his head.

He yelped, scurried back, and turned to run. Behind him, one of the sentries yelled,  _ “Stop! Or the next one goes into your back!”  _

And stop, he did. Quivering in his boots. 

_ “Turn around, slowly!” _

And slowly, he turned back around--  _ “Hands up!” _ \-- his hands well above his head. The other sentry clambered down the structure, jogging down the road with his sword drawn and shimmering in the light of the roadside lantern. When the man finally came into view, Lucien felt his stomach lurch.

A necklace of ears swung from the man’s neck. Four of them. Three human, one elvish. They’d clearly done this before. Before he could even blink, the man ripped the sword from his hip and tossed it into the dark. With the sword pointed at Lucien’s belly, he could only guess what would happen next.

“Now,  _ your coin _ ,” the man demanded, “All o’ it, or I’ll gut yer soft belly like a fish.” 

Lucien shakily shrugged off his pack, and the man wrenched it from his fingers. He slipped it over his shoulders, rolling his neck with the motion, and grinned.

“Now, yer boots.”

Lucien balked, the surprise almost enough to break through the terrified squeak in his voice, “ _ What!?” _

“You heard me!” the man laughed, baring a set of rotting teeth, “Take off yer boots. I want ‘em.”

Lucien paused, then slowly, carefully, reached down to unbuckle his boots, his eyes never leaving the bandit’s hands. He undid the first two buckles, slipping it off his foot, handing to the bandit who tossed it behind him without a care. He worked on the second, even more slowly, when there was a yell and a dull, wet  _ thump _ . 

Both he and the man jolted and turned, only to find the other bandit crumpled on the ground beneath the structure, evidently having fallen. An arrow stuck out of his stomach, visible even in the shadow beneath the structure’s bridge. 

The man in front of him turned around, rotten teeth bared in a scowl. He raised his blade, ready to strike Lucien down. Lucien whispered the words for a flames spell, and fired it directly into the man’s face. 

The man stumbled, screaming as the fire engulfed his head, and flailed his sword wildly-- nearly slashing Lucien’s stomach open with a few swings. Lucien scarpered back, tripping a little without his other shoe, and fell flat on his back just as the man got the fire out of his hair. The man lunged forwards, slashing at him with his sword again, and catching Lucien in the shoulder as he rolled out of the way. 

Lucien bit back a scream, and launched another stream of flames into the man’s face. More and more fire spilled from his hands, and he combined the two streams into one big gout of fire. He refused to let up even as the stench of burning flesh overwhelmed him, and his tenuous grasp on magicka began to wane. 

Just as his magicka was about to run out, an arrow from  _ nowhere  _ pierced the man’s throat. He stumbled and fell to his knees, clutching the gushing wound. His fire-blinded eyes looked up to Lucien, then to the sky, and  _ then  _ rolled into the back of his head. He gave one last, gurgling death rattle and fell to the ground. 

Lucien stared. The bandit was no longer breathing. And judging by the stench, he was well and truly  _ dead _ . Bile rose up in his gullet, and when a figure stepped into the lantern light, he was just as ready to hit them with fire as he was ready to vomit out his entire meal.

“You alright?” a familiar voice called. 

He looked up. Ravini was putting her bow away, settling it gently over her shoulders as though she’d just picked it up, rather than killed someone.  _ Two  _ someones. She crouched beside him, reaching out with a steady hand to his violently shaking shoulder. 

“You’re injured,” she said simply, looking over his sliced shoulder and burned hands, “Hold still. I don’t have any potions right now, so this will have to do.”

He did as he was told, bracing himself for the blasted tingling sensation that awaited him. Most spells he encountered were uncomfortable to use and experience at the best of times-- sometimes causing burns on the caster’s hands if too much magicka was used too quickly. His own hands were a good example, burns from draining his magicka reserves on that bandit blistering away on his palms. However, when Ravini removed her glove--

Conjurer’s burn. Plain as day. So severe as to appear as though the flesh had  _ melted  _ and been reshaped to a hand-like structure, with the circle-like blister scars traveling up and into her sleeve. The healing spell bloomed from her disfigured palm like a flower, the sound of bells tinkling in the air as she cast it onto his shoulder. The spell didn’t tingle-- it wasn’t even  _ warm _ , instead feeling cool as water against his cut and burns. 

By the time she was done, the cut was a thin line of pink nestled into his shoulder and would certainly fade the following day. His hands were merely scalded, as opposed to bubbling with blisters, and he felt… not  _ good _ , per se, but better. 

“Thanks for distracting the bandits for me,” she said, and he snapped his head up to glare at her.

“Oh,  _ sure _ ,” he started, wrenching his arm from her grip to gesture wildly, “You’re welcome! Why  _ wouldn’t  _ I put myself in mortal danger while you run off without me? It was certainly my plan to play the fool while you do Gods know what in the woods! Silly me, I almost thought you wouldn’t come back!”

She tilted her head at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“ _ Of course I’m--” _ he spat, and gave her a look, “What do you think!? You left me alone with a bunch of bandits!”

“Only two of them,” she pointed out, “And I thought you could handle it.”

“What in  _ the world  _ made you think that!?” 

“Because you did handle it,” she said simply, wrestling her glove back onto her ruined hand, “You roasted one of them alive. I took out the other. It’s over. We won.”

He was ready to retort when she turned suddenly and started stripping the dead bandit of his armor. Lucien stared at her.

“What are you doing?”

“He’s around your size,” she said, as though that explained anything. 

“What does--”

“You need armor. Those clothes of yours are fancy, but they won’t get you far in a fight.”

The bile rose up in his throat again just thinking about wearing a dead man’s clothes. A man he helped  _ kill _ . But, the logical, don’t-want-to-die portion of his brain agreed with her. The man was his size, if a bit shorter and broader. And, thanks to their combined aim, the armor was largely untouched save for the blood that dribbled down the front. 

Logic and self preservation won out over emotion and disgust. He stood and started looking for his missing boot and sword. His boot was an easy find, but it seemed his sword was gone for good. It was far too dark, and he was far too drained, for him to put much effort into locating it. 

When he returned to Ravini, she’d stripped the man completely. She’d folded the armor-- a studded rawhide tunic with breeches, by the looks of it-- and set it aside along with a set of unfamiliar leather boots and bracers. 

“Where’d you find those?” he asked. 

She jerked her thumb to the other bandit, “Him. I grabbed them while you two were fighting.”

Familiar anger flared back up again, “Could you  _ at least _ focus on helping me next time?”

She looked up at him, blinking over her wireframes, “I… have you never killed anyone before?”

His face scrunched up, and he-- he wouldn’t cry! But--

“Oh. Uhm,” she looked down to the bandit and then back up again, clearly at a loss, “Sorry. I thought-- I thought you had at least-- I’m sorry.”

Lucien let out a breath, harsh and fast and a little bit sickened. Ravini stood, twisting her hands in her gloves, and reached out for his shoulder. He almost pushed her away, but she seemed to think better of it and let the hand drop. 

“The first time is the hardest. It’s--” she stumbled over her words a bit, biting her lip, “You think it will change you. And that you won’t ever be the same, because there’s some mark on your soul that will keep you from being normal again. But that’s not true,” she said gently, stepping over the corpse to speak softly, “It would be worse if you felt nothing. You’d be a monster for feeling nothing. You’re still you. You’re just… you’re just you. And you’re not a monster.”

He breathed again, a little steadier this time. Then nodded. 

“I’m sorry, again, for leaving you alone. I… I’m very sorry. I won’t leave you alone next time. Or I’ll warn you before I do. I promise.”

He nodded again, wiping his face on his sleeve. A little bit of blood came back and he nearly panicked, before realizing it was the bandit’s blood and not his own. A cold weight settled in the pit of his stomach as he  _ stared _ . 

“Do you want to change into the armor now?” Ravini’s voice broke him from his reverie. She was holding the armor out in her hands, boots and bracers piled on top. “We still have a long road to Riverwood.”

He swallowed, then carefully took the armor and ducked behind a tree to change. It fit well enough, even if it needed a good washing. The boots were a bit too big but he'd manage, though the bracers were certainly too big for him to use without padding the space between with his sleeves. Ravini was waiting for him by the lamppost when he came back around. 

“Ready to go?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he said, quietly, still a little unsteady on his feet.

She looked at him for a bit, then pressed on. They hadn’t made it ten paces past the bandit’s road trap when she started bombarding him with questions. They were simple at first, such as ‘Do you have any family?’ or ‘Where are you from?’ and he answered them quickly as they walked. She quickly ran out of those, however, and seemed to switch into asking him questions about his person.

“What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue. Like my eyes! Is that a bit vain?”

“What’s your favorite food?”

“Oh, sweet rolls! I love sweets, even if they are terrible for me.” 

And on and on, until the sun began to rise overhead. By the time they reached Helgen, she’d quickly begun to run out of questions.

“What about… what’s your favorite fabric?”

“I don’t think I have one?” He said after a moment’s thought, “Do people have favorite fabrics?”

“I have fabrics I hate,” she said as they approached the ruins of Helgen, “I don’t like velvet. Especially crushed velvet. I can’t think when I touch it.” 

“That’s odd,” he said, not quite thinking, “I’ve never heard of that before.”

She seemed to freeze at that. He just barely caught the slight stumble in her step, which she tried to play off as tripping over a nonexistent rock, “I… suppose it is. But, still, you haven’t answered the question.”

He thought about it for a moment, stopping just before the gates. The ruins appeared mostly empty, though it seemed some people had moved in not too long ago. Bandits, probably. He didn’t see anyone on the towers, but maybe they should sneak through anyways.

Ravini seemed to have the same idea, and had crouched into the shadows with her bow drawn. Better safe than sorry. 

“I like lace, I think,” he whispered as they snuck over debris, trying their hardest not to unsettle anything, “It’s just so nice to look at.”

“Mmm, it’s terrible to wear, though,” she whispered back. No bandits so far, for which he was grateful. 

“Mother always did complain about the fancy dresses she had to wear to formal events. Much preferred her armor,” he said with a smile, “Said lace was too delicate for a woman like herself.” 

“And certainly too itchy.”

He snorted a little, thinking about how his mother used to shift and shimmy while wearing such delicate garments. “You may be right.”

“I’m always right-- Oh, hold on.” 

He stopped in his tracks, watching her knock an arrow and draw it. He followed her line of sight. 

A figure stood on the tower nearby. He held his breath. 

She held hers.

And loosed the arrow straight into the figure’s throat. They went down silently, and Lucien felt the cold creep back into his stomach at the sight. A warm hand settled on his shoulder, though, and pulled him back into the present. 

“Wanna clear ‘em out?” she asked gently, “There’s probably more inside.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to be in tight spaces with people who wanted to kill him just yet. She gave a thumbs up, and they slipped silently out the back gates, moving faster as shouts began to rise from where the bandit once stood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as happy with this one, but... thanks for reading! comments and criticisms appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they’d reached Riverwood, she had officially run out of questions, and he officially felt… better, at least. Not great, but better. It struck him, then, that he had no idea why they were heading to Riverwood of all places, but before he could ask-- 

“Alvor!” she called. An older man working a piece of metal at a forge turned and looked at her, poking his head out from the covered deck. They approached, and the man seemed no less sour for their company. 

“Yeah? What’d’ya want?” he said grimly, wiping sweat and soot off his face with his sleeve. 

“You’re Hadvar’s uncle, right?” she asked, adjusting her spectacles, “I was at Helgen. He told me to come see you. Is he around?”

Lucien snapped his head around to stare at her. She was at Helgen? When the dragon attacked!?

The man-- Alvor-- brightened immediately, apparently not noticing or not caring about those little details. “Oh, you a friend of Hadvar’s? Well! Come in, come in, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.” 

“Oh, uhm--” Ravini started, clearly reticent, “That’s alright, I don’t want to impose--”

“Nonsense! He told me all about how you saved his hide at Helgen, that boy’d be dead without you. Come, come, he’s just inside. Drinkin’ me out of house and home, I tell ya!” Alvor laughed, a far cry from the man they’d seen mere moments before. 

He gathered them all and led them inside a cozy little home that smelled pleasantly of pine trees and charcoal. Lucien felt immediately at home-- it was a talent of his, he supposed, and one that Ravini clearly didn’t possess. She was all but pushed inside by the large man, hunched in on herself and as quiet as the moment he met her. 

“Hadvar! C’mere, boy, someone’s here to see ya!” 

A man around Lucien’s age-- or, perhaps a good few years older-- came up the basement steps, swaying heavily on his feet. Lucien’s stomach dropped immediately. He had a look in his eye that Lucien knew all too well.

Hadvar looked up at them blearily, and gave a bitter, watery smile. “Ravini. You came by.”

“I did,” she said quietly, “Sorry it took so long.”

“No matter,” Hadvar waved a hand, and slumped into a chair. He picked up a tankard and took a long, harsh swig, “It’s good you came by. Was worried you’d gone and got yourself eaten by a bear or something. I have--”

“Something for me to do, I know,” she cut him off, taking a seat. 

“...I was going to say… well, yes. I have something for you to do,” he sighed, slouching even more deeply into his chair, “I need you to go to Whiterun and warn the Jarl. Get soldiers to come and protect Riverwood. I’d go myself, but, ah....”

Lucien could hazard a guess. The man had been drinking, and, despite the rumored Nord proclivities for alcohol, he doubted it was normal for them to drink before noon. He had also clearly been sleeping in his armor, something Lucien had known soldiers to do when they couldn’t stop feeling endangered. Judging by the dark bags under his eyes and the red rim around his pupils, it was _not_ a restful sleep.

“Consider it done,” Ravini said, pulling him from his thoughts. She seemed to find nothing wrong with that scene, aside from a general sense of discomfort, and stood immediately, “Anywhere I can pick up fresh supplies?” 

Alvor spoke up, “We’ll give you some food for your journey. No use in making you pay over at the Sleeping Giant when my wife’s the best cook in town, eh?” He laughed jovially, and Hadvar winced, rubbing circles into his temples. 

Ravini nodded, “Sounds good to me, but do you have a general store? I have a few things to sell.”

“Oh, of course,” Alvor went to the window and pointed across the street, “The Riverwood Trader will have you covered. Just… mind Lucan’s temper, will ya? Man had a break-in recently. He’s been a bit… testy.”

She nodded again and headed out the door. Lucien followed suit, watching Hadvar take another swig from his tankard before heading to the bed.

Lucien frowned. The man almost undoubtedly had shellshock. And, when Lucien thought about it… Ravini might be shell-shocked as well.

“You’re giving me a look, Lucien,” Ravini said, snapping him out of his thoughts as they crossed the street. She stopped in front of the Trader’s door, and looked him in the eye. “What is it?”

He weighed his options a little bit, wondering if maybe peering this much into a stranger’s life was rude. It may not be his place to ask whether or not she had battle fatigue from Helgen like her companion so evidently did, but-- part of him worried about the consequences of keeping silent. So, he took a circuitous route.

“Why’d you go to Falkreath instead of Riverwood if you were at Helgen?” 

She froze and stared. Hard. 

“I’m not going to talk about that,” she said, and he blinked at her bluntness. 

“Why not?” he prodded slightly.

“Because I don’t want to.” As though that was a legitimate answer. 

“But--”

 _“Because I don’t want to,”_ she repeated, much firmer this time, “And if you value your investment, you’ll leave it at that.” 

She turned and walked directly into the store, the sounds of an argument floating out from inside. Lucien quietly followed suit, sighing a little. Maybe he’d get an answer out of her some other time, but, for now, they had other things to worry about. 

* * *

Bleak Falls Barrow. 

Chipper name, that. Might have named it Draugr City. Or something equally cheerful, like Come-Here-To-Dieville. 

He was certainly feeling the festive charm of the place as they dispatched whole gaggles of bandits and skeevers, dodged deadly traps, and came face to face with a giant spider and its countless babies. He shivered a little, skin still crawling with the sensation of thousands of tiny legs skittering over him-- all because he cracked open an egg sac with his sword. 

Ravini seemed equally worse for wear by the time they took a break. She was firing arrows into every corpse and skeleton at ground level since one snuck behind them and buried an axe into her shoulder. 

“I think I hate this place,” she said ruefully as they rested near yet another swinging blade trap, “Or, no, I hate the Nords for building it. Why are we here again?”

“You wanted to fetch that golden claw for Lucan,” Lucien reminded her as he took another bite from his apple. 

She snapped her fingers, though the effect was lost in her gloves, “Right. And why did I do that?”

“...Why _did_ you do that?” 

“Because Camilla asked me to,” she said as though it were obvious, “But, honestly, I might have said ‘no’ if I knew about the traps. Who puts traps in a crypt?”

“Well, when your dead walk….”

She huffed, taking a swig from her water skin, wiping at the sweat and grime that collected on the exposed parts of her face. “This is why you should burn your dead. This is exactly why.”

“Don’t you have issues with ash spawn in Morrowind?” he asked, "Or at least Solstheim."

She shrugged, handing him the water skin so he could have a sip, "Still, why traps? Is it for the dead, or for the graverobbers? Why bury valuables with your dead if you know people will steal them?" 

Lucien considered delving into Nordic burial practices and beliefs in Sovngarde, but thought better of it as they heard shuffling down further down in the crypt. Ravini sighed, replaced her kerchief, and readied her bow. 

“Shall you go first, or shall I?” she asked, tilting a head towards the blade traps. 

“Age before beauty,” he joked, “You’re better at dodging those things than I am, remember?”

She sighed again and bounced on her toes for a moment before sprinting straight through, dodging all the blades in one go. She pulled the chain on the other side just as a corpse emerged from the coffin, and he threw a few bursts of frost at it to slow it down. Ravini swiftly finished it off and focused on the rest in the room, knocking down a few oil lamps and bisecting the room with a wall of fire. 

It was about midway into the battle that Lucien thought-- _Hey, we’re getting good at this--_ and, of course, that was the very moment an arrow caught him in the throat and he collapsed to the ground. He’d be lucky if it was more a graze than anything, but the whistling he felt with each breath told him otherwise. Still, he heard Ravini gasp and all but drop to the ground beside him and engulf his throat in a healing spell. 

The draugr that had shot him wasn’t downed, however. It drew its axe and ran forwards, charging them both as Lucien laid dying and Ravini stayed distracted. It raised its axe above its head, ready to cleave either of them in twain, and he had enough fight left in him to fire off an experimental spell: Fireball. 

The draugr-- and his hand-- _exploded_. 

Just as his vision began to fade, Lucien heard Ravini shout one last thing. He hoped it was his name, like in the stories.

In reality, it sounded an awful lot like _“--fucking idiot!”_

* * *

When he awoke it was not, as he expected, in Aetherius. Instead, he was lying on a lumpy bedroll, staring at a dark stone ceiling. He groggily tried to sit up, only to have a firm hand push him back down. 

“You’re a blasted fool, you know that?” Ravini said, heat clear in her voice, “Shoulda just left you to die. Maybe you’d have learned something, then.”

He wanted to respond with something pithy about teaching Draugr to count-- he may have lost his metaphor somewhere in the delirium-- but the whistling sound that came out of his throat instead of his mouth put a stop to that. He reached up to where the wound was, feeling little tingles of pain as he prodded at what was _definitely_ a hole in his neck. 

Ravini swatted his hands away, “Stop it, you fool. Lie still.”

He tried to sit up again, get a better look at his surroundings, gain his bearings, _anything_ , only for her to roughly shove him back down. His breathing quickened and the sweats started and, oh Divines, he was going to-- 

“Stay. Down,” she enunciated each syllable clearly, as though talking to a child, “I stopped the bleeding. Healed your hand a bit. Ran out of magicka doing that, so I gave you a potion. You’re lucky I was able to get it down your gullet with that hole in it, but you’ll be fine. Just let it work.”

He stilled a little at that, flexing his hand in its makeshift bandage. Surprisingly, he had all his fingers and he could slowly sense the feeling return to them bit by bit-- just how skilled was she in healing spells? Most wouldn’t be able to piece the tendons back together in something as small as a hand, let alone nerve endings. He knew as much from his own studies at the Arcane University; restoration was as much a science as it was an art. 

“How…” he rasped. Probably the only recognizable word he could say right now. 

“Hmm?” Ravini blinked at him, “I just told you. Healing spell and potion. Simple as that.”

Hardly seemed so simple. But, he let it go, feeling the healing potion slowly close the wound at his throat. When it came time for another dose, Ravini was as gentle as could be, and, eventually, they were able to travel again. 

Luckily, the puzzle door wasn’t far. It took little work to figure it out with the claw handy, and soon they were in a dark cavern dimly lit by ancient fires and… what appeared to be moonlight. How long had he been out? 

He turned to Ravini to ask, and… she wasn’t there. He whirled around in search of her, and saw her walking towards the great wall in the back of the cavern. Hands at her sides, guard completely down, as though in a _trance_. He quickly followed.

“Ravini,” he tried, throat still terribly sore, “Ravini, wait, you don’t know what’s….”

She didn’t seem to hear him, focused entirely on the ancient script of the wall. She brushed it with her fingers, swaying as though to unheard music, and then-- 

The coffin behind them burst open, the telltale growl of a very angry draugr echoing from within. They whirled around to face it, only to be blasted back against the wall by a _shout_ that just about shattered them to pieces. Lucien barely had enough time to blast it with fire before it rushed at them, swinging a massive, glimmering axe. 

The fire, luckily, seemed to stun it long enough for Ravini to get her bearings. They orbited the draugr, splitting its attention between them with flame spells and well placed arrows, and dodged its cleaving swings as best they could. Finally, they downed the creature, and Ravini finished it off with a shot to the head, splitting the helmet in two with a distinct _clatter-thump_. 

Lucien looked to Ravini, concern plain as the beard on his face, “You alright? You… seemed….”

“I’m fine,” she said, looking back to the enscripted wall, “What do you think that is?”

“That?” he pointed to the wall and she nodded, “I’m not sure. Seems to be some ancient inscription,” he took a step closer to inspect it, trying to make sense of the script, “I think it might be in the ancient Dragon language.”

“Think this has to do with it?” Ravini asked, hefting a large stone slab from the chest by the coffin, “It has similar markings.”

“Let me see that,” he reached out for it, running his fingers along the engravings. It had similar markings on the back, but the front is what interested him most, “Huh. I wonder what this is.”

“Looks like a map,” she said over his shoulder, tracing one of the lines with a finger, “See the shape? It looks like Skyrim.”

Lucien just about hit himself. “Of course! But what of the little divots? What are those markings for?”

Ravini shrugged, “Dunno. Think we could sell it?”

He balked at her. “Sell it? It could be priceless! We should hold onto it until we figure out what it is-- what if this leads to more treasure? Or-- or what if it helps us figure out what that wall says? Would you want to sell it then?”

She looked at it in silence, then back to the wall. “...You have a point,” she sighed, rolling her shoulders, “Alright, we’ll hold onto it. Give it here, I’ll put it in my pack.”

* * *

  
  


Finding the exit was surprisingly easy, all things considered. He half expected some giant snakes in the tunnel leading outside, but thankfully there was little else but a treasure chest and a few beetles that crawled into his boots. They’d just barely climbed down the cliffside when thunder cracked the sky and the rain came down-- in sheets, he might add. He had no idea Skyrim could be such a rainy province, especially since not a cloud had been in the sky when they climbed the mountain that morning. 

He and Ravini made little conversation during their trek back to town. She was evidently just as exhausted as he was, but he couldn’t help a few songs here and there. To stretch his vocal cords, of course. It had nothing to do with distracting him from the dark woods full of beasts that they were blindly walking through in the middle of the night. Nope. Not at all.

By the time they made it back to Riverwood, however, it was well past midnight and they were wet, cold, and thoroughly miserable. They argued a little over whether or not to wake the Valariuses to return their claw-- he on team ‘wait until morning’ and she on team ‘let’s get it over with’-- only to accidentally wake the siblings with their bickering just outside their door. Lucan seemed much more excited to get their claw back than his sister, but they both thanked the two and offered to pay the cost of two beds at the Sleeping Giant. 

Both he and Ravini jumped at the opportunity, and they settled into their room with gusto. 

“At least we won’t need a bath,” he joked with Ravini as they peeled off their outer layers and warmed themselves by the fire, “Never expected crypts to be quite so dirty. They never mention that in the stories.”

“Makes for bad writing,” she said as she pulled off her mismatched leather boots, “People read to escape the world, not fall face first into it.”

“I suppose…” he trailed off, thinking, “I mostly read to learn about the world, personally. Now, I’m realizing just how limited that line of thinking actually was. It’s a little disorienting.”

Ravini hummed and peeled off another layer of furs, as well as her hood and kerchief, revealing a thin tunic and simple breeches underneath her armor. He finally got a good look at her without all the layers and was struck by her appearance. Wavy black hair bobbed to her chin in a middle-part, scars trailing down from her face to the right side of her neck and shoulders, and--

“Your arms,” he started, blinking at the shape of them beneath her wet tunic, “Where did you get so muscular? Is it the bow?”

She paused a little, and sighed. “Yes. It takes a lot of strength to pull a bow. More than people seem to think,” she said, removing her gloves to set them aside, “Not all of us can be lean little wood nymphs born with the forest’s blessing, after all.”

He chuckled, “I suppose you’re right. I’ve never been much in the way of physical ability myself. ‘The mind is your greatest weapon!’ my father used to tell me, but my mother would always follow up with ‘Unless you can swing a sword!’”

Ravini snorted, smiling a little. She had a pleasant smile, if a bit unused. 

“Perhaps we’ll get you some lessons down in Whiterun, yes?” she suggested, stretching out like a cat, “Or we could go to the College in Winterhold. You’re a mage-y sort.”

He perked up, “Could we!? I’ve been dying to go to the College since I arrived! Oh, think of the things to study, their experience with Nordic and Dwemer ruins must make their history lessons fascinating. And the practical lessons! I hear the College of Winterhold is much more focused on practical application rather than theory. I'm quite curious as to how that plays out for the students.” 

“Well…” she tilted her head in consideration for a moment, “I suppose so. After we deliver the news to the Jarl. And so long as he doesn’t have any pressing tasks for us to do?”

Lucien grinned at her, bright and cheerful. “Sounds good to me! Let’s get our rest. We have a big day tomorrow!”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning was still as rainy as could be. They waited a few hours, passing the time by gathering supplies and doing favors here and there, but by noon it was clear it was to rain all day. A shame, that-- their gear hadn’t even dried completely from the night before, and he wasn’t looking forward to tramping through all the ice and mud. 

“You know, it gets worse the further north we go,” Ravini said to him as he complained, “Especially in Winterhold. You sure you want to go there?”

“Of course!” he chirped, straightening his back, “It’s the only magical institution in Skyrim! We absolutely have to go! Er-- unless you don’t want to, of course.”

She chuckled and walked out from under the porch of the Sleeping Giant, down the slickened steps and into the rain, “I want to. We won’t make it there anytime soon if we keep waiting here. Let’s go.”

They faced a few obstacles on their silent trek to Whiterun, though not as many as Lucien had feared. The roads were largely deserted; save for a few animals, an Imperial prisoner transport, and a lone guard outside the Meadery.

He’d evidently been enjoying his lunch, judging by the small kit laid out in the mud beside him-- a meager meal of ham and soggy bread with what looked to be more than a few bottles of mead. Lucien had waved to the man in what he assumed was politeness, but the guard quickly stepped into their path.

“Where ya headed, you two?” the guard asked, slurring a bit and swaying on his feet.

Lucien leapt at the chance for conversation, regardless-- chirping, “Whiterun! We're off to see the Jarl; we have news from Helgen."

The guard paused. "Helgen?" Lucien could hear the eyebrow-raise in the man's voice despite the full helmet covering his face, "That the place of the riots a week or two back? Bit late, aren’t you?”

“It wasn’t a riot,” Ravini said simply. She stepped to the side and tried to trudge past the guard, “We’ll be going now.”

Lucien cringed a little, but did his best to follow. Ravini, for all her skills, was not a conversationalist in the least, often meeting his own chatter with nary a chuckle or comment. Evidently, talking to guards was also not among her strong suits.

“Hold there, what do you mean it wasn’t a riot?” the guard asked, stepping into their way again.

Ravini did not reply, instead doubling down on her attempts to walk away.

The man grabbed her arm to stop her, earning a violent jolt from Ravini. She wrenched her arm away, only to be grabbed again-- and again when she wormed free with a curse. The struggle continued until the guard reached for his sword, and Ravini stilled, tense as a serpent ready to strike.

“It wasn’t a riot!” she spat. Lucien felt himself begin to sweat despite the chill in the air, unsure of what to do, “Now, let me go! Don’t-- don’t touch me!”

“Uhm--"

“Well, what was it then, eh?” the guard cut him off, looking between the two without letting Ravini go. His hand remained on the hilt of his sword, gripping tighter as the seconds passed, “And why are you hiding your face? If you’re planning to cause trouble in Whiterun, I’ll--” 

“I’m not going to do anything, just let me go!” 

“Sir--” Lucien started, hands out in a placating gesture, as he tried to get between the two.

“You-- be quiet,” the guard spat at him, then turned to yank the kerchief from Ravini’s face, “ _Speak, elf_. What do you have to hide?”

“Sir. Sir!” Lucien tried again, speaking louder this time, “Please, we mean no harm! We’re just-- we’re just trying to bring news of the events to the Jarl.”

“The Jarl is well aware of what happened in Helgen!” the guard snapped, his patience clearly wearing thin, “Everyone’s heard how the riots there destroyed the place, so what brings you two here!?” 

“Sir, it wasn’t a riot, it was a--” Lucien tried, but Ravini shifted ever so slightly-- head tilting down, breathing getting panicked, hands clenched into fists-- and when the guard adjusted his grip on her--

She punched him in the face.

Her fist bounced off his helmet with the distinct, dull ‘thwack’ of bone hitting metal. His head rocked, then around again as though to glare at her through the helmet’s blackened eyeholes, and he threw her to the ground. Lucien almost knelt down to try to help her up, but was stopped when the guard jabbed his knee into her back to pin her there. 

“By my order, you’re under arrest for suspicious behavior and assaulting a guard,” he said, pulling a set of leather strips from his belt and tying them around her wrists, “You’ll have your belongings searched and be given fair trial in a few days.”

“But-- sir, we have to get to Dragonsreach!” Lucien tried, absolutely gobsmacked by this turn of events, only to be met with the tip of a sword pointed at his neck.

“You _and_ your companion will make it to Dragonsreach-- through the dungeons,” the guard threatened, jabbing the tip to prove his point, “Now, come, or I’ll drag you both down there myself.” 

With few ways to argue and even less room to breathe, Lucien quietly followed the guard as he all but dragged his companion towards Whiterun. 

* * *

  
  


It’s another two hours in holding cells across from one another before Ravini spoke, voice quiet and bitter-- “I hate this place already.”

He could hardly blame her. The entire city watched them get dragged through the streets, getting passed from guard to guard until they ended up in Dragonsreach’s dungeons. Trying to explain their situation did little, and everything-- from their packs to their armor-- was confiscated as part of their ‘crime.’

Actually, maybe he _could_ blame her, said some bitter part of his soul. They were shivering in rags on flea-ridden cots, beneath the very castle they were supposed to be visiting-- and _why?_ Because Ravini went and had a fit. All she had to do was tell the guards about the dragons! It would have been simple, and they’d have been on their merry little--

“You can quit mumbling,” Ravini sniped at him from her cell, and he scowled a little, glaring at the mouse nest in the corner. 

“Oh, sorry, do you want me to speak up?” he quipped back sarcastically, “Maybe then you’d explain to me why you decided to get us arrested!” 

“I didn’t-- _I didn’t decide to get us arrested!”_ she snapped, standing from the cot to grip the bars of her cell, “He’s the one who threatened us, not the other way around! I was just trying to get us to the Jarl!” 

“By, what, having a fit?” he asked, brow raised and arms crossed contemptuously, “Congratulations, you got us into Dragonsreach. Fantastic job.”

“He grabbed me!”

“So, you punch him. Makes perfect sense, your logic is impeccable--”

Their guard-- a redheaded one in an open faced helmet this time-- threw a bottle against one of the cells beside Ravini’s. It shattered into a hundred little pieces, quieting their argument immediately. Ravini backed away from the bars of the cell and curled up meekly on the cot, while Lucien tilted his head to get a better look at the man.

“Keep arguin’ an’ the next one goes at y’ heads,” the man slurred from his post in the corner, jabbing a finger in Lucien’s direction, “I ain’t in here to listen to bickerin’. So, either shut up or learn t’ get along.”

Lucien looked to him desperately, “Sir, I understand you wish for a quiet day, but--”

“Shut up.”

He doubled down, “But! We have news that _must_ get to the Jarl! If we cannot inform him, surely you could?” 

“I said shut up!” the redhead growled, stumbling up from his post to grab another bottle of ale, “Keep yappin’ an’ I’ll-- I’ll have th’ headsman waitin’ for ya.” 

“That hardly seems--”

The guard pitched an empty bottle at the cell, this one cracking against Lucien’s fingers that were wrapped around one of the bars. He felt something in them crack, and he pulled back with a yelp, hand quickly growing stiff and numb from the pain. His middle and forefinger had taken the brunt of it, swelling and darkening even under the low light of the dungeons, and he had to bite his lip to hold back tears. 

“Lucien…?” Ravini asked quietly from her side of the room, “Did he hurt you?”

He bit back a bitter response, instead choosing to sink to the floor and cradle his broken fingers. 

“Lucien--”

The dungeon doors opened. In marched a tall, rugged Nord in studded leathers, flanked by a Dark Elf in glimmering Elven armor and the guard from earlier. They stopped briefly to look between him and Ravini.

“Wilhelm. The keys,” barked the Dark Elf, her voice thick with a Morrowind accent.

Wilhelm, the redhead guard apparently, stumbled to his feet and struggled for the keys at his belt, dropping them more than once. The third time, the Dark Elf sneered and snatched them from the ground, growling something about idiot louts drinking on the job. She quickly walked over to Ravini’s cell, then to Lucien’s, opening them both and barking--

“Out. You’re to meet with Jarl Baalgruf of Whiterun and tell him news of Helgen. You will only speak when spoken to, and you will treat him with the same respect you treat the Divines. Failing that, you will be brought down here and left to _rot_. We have no need for those who refuse to respect our laws or our leaders. Do you understand?”

Ravini, at least, seemed to. She said nothing as she left the cell, hurrying over to Lucien as he left his own and inspecting his fingers with a click of her tongue. Just as she was about to speak, she looked over to the three standing by with their swords at their hips, and quietly closed her mouth. 

* * *

Turns out that Dragonsreach was quite beautiful on second viewing, when one wasn’t under as much duress. The architecture was very Nordic, of course, but the intricate carvings and tapestries were a delight to the eyes, and it seemed the people who built it had the foresight to make it trap heat. A great fire roared in the center of the room, the heat of it slowly drying out his damp clothing and warming the cold ache in his bones. 

Of course, none of that really mattered as they were forced to kneel before the steps of the throne. A tall man in a bejeweled circlet stood before them, his features sharp and severe in the glow of the fire. His eyes had a steely glint to them found only in leaders who saw much and spoke little. 

Lucien felt something in him shiver. Jarl Baalgruf the Greater, then. He’d heard tales of the man-- some positive, others negative-- but kneeling before him now made all those tales seem… far away. How likely was it that the Jarl would appreciate being told of _dragons_ , when everyone was convinced Helgen was destroyed in a riot? 

“Well?” the Jarl asked, voice level and firm, “You have news of Helgen. What news is that?”

Lucien spoke up first, swallowing the nervousness building in his throat. “You’ve-- you’ve surely heard of the destruction at Helgen, yes?”

The Jarl looked at him, and nodded. 

“W--eeeell….”

“It was dragons,” Ravini said simply.

They all snapped their heads over to her. The Dark Elf standing behind her grabbed her collar roughly, nearly choking her. 

“I saw it!” she insisted, despite the pressure around her throat, “A dragon attacked Helgen.”

The Jarl shifted, stepping over to Ravini to look her in the eyes. “You’re aware dragons are extinct, yes?”

“Not this one,” she replied, voice steady and eyes hard, “It razed the village to the ground. Surely you’ve seen the corpses. Burned alive. A riot doesn’t do that-- not without an army backing it. And last I saw, it was headed this way.” 

“You… saw this dragon?”

“Had an impeccable view just as I was to have my head cut off.” 

Lucien blinked. What?

“You’re… awfully forthcoming with your criminal past,” the Jarl said carefully, stroking his impressive beard, “But your eyes… you’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

A man in the corner-- a balding Imperial-- stepped forwards, disbelief plain as day on his face. “My lord, you cannot be serious. Dragons? Just as Ulfric’s defeat was at hand? And you believe this woman, who is very clearly a criminal? Preposterous!” 

Ravini looked to him, “Do you actually have witness accounts of the riot, or was a riot assumed because of the destruction?” 

A hush fell over the room. The Imperial gaped at her-- “I-- What?” 

Ravini looked to the Jarl, “I escaped with a man-- an Imperial soldier named Hadvar. He lives with his uncle in Riverwood. I believe we are among the few survivors of Helgen. He will corroborate my story if you do not believe me.”

The Jarl clearly thinks for a moment, before looking to Lucien.

“And you? Why should I believe your companion?”

Lucien jolted, feeling sweat trickle down the back of his neck. “Well… it’s-- it’s too dangerous not to believe her, is it not?”

The Jarl tilted his head. “How do you mean?”

“If-- If there is a dragon, and it’s headed this way, then-- then Riverwood is in the most immediate danger. And I’ve seen Riverwood, lovely town, it’d be a shame to see it burnt to the ground by a fire-breathing, nigh unstoppable monstrosity, wouldn’t it?” he chuckled nervously, before babbling on, “And if Riverwood is gone, then where’s it headed next? Certainly not _home_ or anything like that-- no, it’d come _here_. And I’ve seen the fields outside this place-- all that grass and tundra would catch fire in an instant! Think of it! This city is mostly made of wood, it’d be cinders before you could tell it to stop!” 

The Jarl looked at him inscrutably, before glancing up at the Dark Elf.

“Irileth. Send a detachment to Riverwood at once.” 

“Yes, my Jarl,” Irileth said, dropping Ravini and turning on her heel to leave. 

The Imperial intervened. “My lord, that seems wholly irresponsible! The Jarl of Falkreath will think we’re joining Ulfric’s side and planning to attack him--”

“Enough!” the Jarl snapped, “I will not stand idly by while a monster burns my hold and slaughters my people! Now, bring these two their belongings. They’re going to need them.”

“What?” the two in question asked in unison. Ravini took a perilous step forwards-- “But-- We were just to warn you--”

The Jarl cut her off with a wave of his hand, speaking harshly, “Regardless of your original intent, you still attacked one of my guards and drew him from his post. You are being conscripted to fight this dragon threat. Failure to cooperate will result in you being put back into the dungeons to finish your sentence-- thirty days in jail. Do you understand?” 

Lucien gulped. Thirty days was a long time. He looked to Ravini-- who looked ready to protest-- and spoke up, “Yes. We understand. Thank you for your grace, my lord.” 

Ravini shot him a look, but said nothing else. 

“Good,” the Jarl said, “Come with me. We have someone who may be interested in these… dragons and rumors of dragons.”

* * *

The ‘someone’ in question turned out to be a squirrely, distracted man named Farengar. 

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?” he asked, eyes glinting beneath his hood, “Oh yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons…. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. _Well_ , when I say _fetch_ , I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

Ravini looked to Lucien. 

Lucien looked to Ravini. 

She shrugged, and turned back to Farengar. “Alright. Where are we going and what are we fetching?” 

“Oh!” Farengar seemed surprised, “Straight to the point, eh? No need for tedious hows and whys. I like that. Leave those details to your betters, am I right?"

Ravini nodded, but something told Lucien the feeling wasn’t mutual. 

“So, what do you need us to do?” Lucien spoke up. The wizard looked to him, a little smile spreading across his face. 

"I began to search for information about dragons - where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?” he asked rhetorically, making grand gestures with his hands, “I ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow - a ‘Dragonstone,’ said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet - no doubt interred in the main chamber - and bring it to me. Simplicity itself!”

Lucien blinked. That sounded like-- 

Ravini had the same idea, removing her pack and setting it on the desk in the center of the room to rummage through it, pulling the stone tablet she had wrapped up at the bottom. “Do you mean this old stone?” she asked, holding it out to him. 

"Ah!” Farengar clapped, “The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! You already found it! You are cut from a different cloth than the usual brutes the Jarl foists on me."

She handed it over and he took it greedily, running his hands along the various divots and grooves that covered the face of the stone. He set it carefully upon his desk, and pulled out a stick of charcoal and a piece of parchment, already trying to take rubbings of the surface. 

“What do the symbols on the back mean?” Ravini asked carefully, watching as the man inspected it. 

“Hm?” he blinked up at her, apparently surprised she was still there, “Oh, they’re most likely in an ancient dragon language. Whatever it means, I’m sure it’s important to the dragons. Don’t worry about it, this is where your job ends and mine begins. Few in Skyrim have much appreciation for the art of the mind--”

"But what does it _mean?"_ Ravini insisted.

"I'll have to translate it," Farengar said, blinking at her, "Are you interested in the dragon language, too? Surprising, considering your occupation."

Ravini grit her jaw at the backhanded comment, and just as Lucien tried to step in--

Suddenly, there were shouts outside the room. Lucien turned and poked his head out just in time to see Irileth come marching up the steps.

“Farengar!” she called, slightly out of breath. Evidently she had run there, “Farengar, there’s been a dragon sighting, you need to come at once.” 

“A dragon!” the man gasped, “How exciting? Where was it last seen? What-- What was it doing!?” 

“I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you,” she scolded, “If a dragon attacks, I don’t know if we can stop it. We need to go. You two--” she turned suddenly, pinning both Lucien and Ravini beneath her gaze, “You’ll come, too.”

“But--” Ravini started, clearly resisting.

“Thirty days,” she warned.

Ravini stilled. Then nodded, glancing over at Lucien. He nodded as well, and they trudged up the steps after the others to meet with Jarl Baalgruf. 

Evidently, there was a dragon to slay.

And, as they soon found out, _they_ were to slay it. 


	5. Chapter 5

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Lucien muttered to Ravini as they were escorted out of the Jarl’s sight, “We’re going to fight a dragon. We’re going to die fighting a dragon. Over what? Thirty days in jail? Are we insane?”

“We’re not going to die,” Ravini whispered back, “We don’t even know if the dragon is still there. It could have run off by now.”

“And if it hasn’t!?” he spat. Irileth glared at them from over her shoulder as they were led down the steps towards the entrance, contempt plain on her face. 

“Then I’ll keep you safe,” Ravini said simply, as though it were the easiest and most logical thing in the world, “It’s what you paid me to do, after all. Now, give me your hand.”

He blinked, and clutched his hand to his chest, scandalized, “Why?”

“Your fingers are broken,” she said, giving him a look, “Do you want to fight a dragon when you can barely hold a sword?” 

He did as he was told. She gripped his hand as they followed Irileth through the districts, pouring magicka into their joined hands, and he felt the cool magic wash over his own until he could flex them without any pain at all. It made him feel a little better, knowing she could at least heal him if things went awry. Even if she was the one who got them into this situation in the first place. 

He dropped her hand bitterly once the healing was over, not quite done pouting over the situation. “If I die, I’m going to haunt you.”

“What if we both die?” she asked, breezily, “Will you haunt my ghost?”

_ “Yes,” _ he snapped, “And I’ll sing Ragnar the Red until we’re both utterly sick of it.” 

“You just said the title and I’m already sick of it. Aren’t you?” 

“ _ And the braggart named Ragnar was boastful no more…. as his ugly red head rolled around on the floor!” _ he sang, putting his best effort into making it as melodic and grating as possible. 

Ravini, surprisingly, chuckled, “I suppose I’ll have to make sure we don’t die, then, yes?”

“Will you two take this seriously?” Irileth complained, glaring at them through the rain as they approached the city gates, “Many will die. Many good men will lose their lives, and there will be families without fathers and brothers and sons. And all you can think about is-- is Ragnar the Red!?”

Ravini fell silent and pulled her kerchief higher up onto her nose, narrowing the slit where her wireframes peeked out. “Should I be thinking of anything else?” she asked bluntly, and Lucien felt himself sputter. 

“What she means is… is….” Lucien started. 

“If you two run off while we fight this dragon, I’ll put you down myself,” Irileth cut him off, glaring at the two of them, “Do you hear me?” 

Lucien nodded furiously, while Ravini looked at her impassively, not even caring about the deep glare that threatened to set them both on fire. Irileth sighed and marched up to the guards waiting by the gates, giving a grand speech about… something. 

Lucien wasn’t really listening. He was watching as Ravini clenched and unclenched her fists, adjusted her pack, and shifted from foot to foot. Odd little habits he’d noticed she had, unable to physically stop moving in some way when… nervous? He wasn’t sure. He still didn’t know why she punched the guardsman. He didn’t know why she suddenly agreed to fight the damn dragon instead of staying in jail. He supposed that if he died, he’d never know. 

All the more reason not to, he guessed.

Soon, Irileth was finished and with a grand huzzah, they all exited the gates. Marching through sopping wet fields and over slick cobblestones, the tower where the dragon was sighted soon came into view and--

And….

A sound like a thunderclap came crashing through the sky. A thundering beat, rhythmic in nature, as though someone were beating a drum against his chest. It threatened to knock his heart loose. It threatened to deafen him. It threatened to throw him to the ground.

A great black shadow passed overhead. Somewhere above the clouds. The other guardsmen didn’t seem to notice, marching headlong to the tower while Lucien felt his feet stumble to a stop. He barely noticed as Ravini gripped his arm and dragged him along, picking up speed as the shadow passed overhead again, a great and terrible roar ripping through the air. 

The beast came down from the clouds over the southern mountains, trails of vapor clinging to its batlike wings and twisted horns. Shimmering green and blue, it was almost beautiful in its motions, before it let out another roar, this one so loud it made his ears ache with the strain-- and a gout of fire curled out from its fanged maw. It twisted in the sky, the flapping of its wings causing stone to fall from the tower, before flying back up into the clouds. 

The dragon was here. 

And it was angry. 

Some guards in the tower screamed for them to run, but Ravini dragged him up past him and into the tower, running up the stairs even as Lucien’s steps slowed and became sluggish with fear. 

“Oh, Gods, I’m fighting a dragon. An actual, real dragon, I-- I--”

“Lucien.” 

“I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t--”

_ “Lucien!”  _

_ “Ravini, we’re going to die!” _

She turned and gripped his shoulders just before they reached the top of the tower, a Nirn shattering roar and screams of battle piercing through the thick stone walls that surrounded them. She yanked the kerchief down from her face, and he could barely focus on the words coming out of her mouth.

“--not going to die. Do you hear me? Do you understand? Lucien? You’ve been through battle before--”

_ “Not against a dragon!” _ he cried hysterically, _ “Not against a fire breathing monster that can break through stone!”  _

“Then we’ll show that dragon how it feels to be roasted alive. And pierced with arrows. And stabbed with swords. And all other manner of fighting things, do you understand?” Ravini said firmly, shaking him a little to break him out of his hysterics. He was trying so hard not to cry, “I will protect you. But we have to keep moving.  _ Now.” _

He nodded, shaking violently in his boots. 

“Think of a song,” she insisted as she dragged him up through the opening at the top of the tower, “Think of a song and sing it, you’re good at singing. Do Ragnar the Red.”

“The one you hate?”

“It’ll hate it, too.”

The dragon flew overhead, and Lucien felt its roar vibrate in his chest so hard he thought his heart might burst. It let forth a shout, and a gout of fire came spilling from its mouth, singeing the tip of his boot as he rolled out of the way. The flames burned in a great big wall, separating him and Ravini, but--

Ravini didn’t seem to care. She had her bow out, aimed at the dragon and loosing arrows left and right to try to hit it. 

Lucien breathed as deeply as his shivering lungs would allow. Soaked to the bone like this, it would be hard to set off bolts of flame, but-- but if he tried frost or lightning-- 

The dragon passed by again, coming close enough for Lucien to feel the beat of its terrible wings. He let loose gouts of frost to try and slow the creature down, and experimentally let out a few shocks of lightning-- not his forte, he must admit, but it was better than nothing. It took a swipe at him with its claws, and he had never been more grateful for his light armor than when he rolled out of its way. 

All throughout, he was singing. He did Ragnar the Red, just like Ravini suggested, until his voice was hoarse and his throat was thick with smoke. He sang, and sang, and sang, until-- finally-- the creature was made to fall and began thrashing about, its wings full of holes and frostbite. He almost ran down the steps to chase after it, when the beast’s great tail came swerving into the tower, nearly knocking it over. 

Time slowed down. Lucien saw himself falling, tilting with the tower and careening over the edge. He heard men screaming, then not screaming, as they fell. It was a long way down. He wouldn’t make it if he hit the ground--

But Ravini was there, grabbing him by the arm and nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. She hoisted him to her chest and ran for the stairs, even as the top of the tower began to fall. 

They barely made it. The top of the tower fell, hitting the earth with a resounding  _ boom, _ and crushing the dragon’s tail-- and a few good men-- beneath it. The creature let out what could have only been a scream of pure agony, thrashing as it tried to remove its tail from beneath the structure. A guard came up and dug his sword into the creature’s neck, getting it stuck. The dragon snatched him up in its jaws, crushing him with such intensity that the guard was now more viscera than man. 

Lucien watched as the other guards circled around it, the legends about Nord bravery and foolishness apparently being more true than he’d like. Ravini dropped him and pulled her bow again, loosing arrow after arrow into the dragon while a few of the guards were caught in its flames. Its thrashing slowed. It looked to Ravini with intelligent eyes, as she fired yet another arrow, screaming-- 

_ “Dovahkiin!? Niiii!”  _

* * *

  
  


So.

They fought a dragon. Better yet, they  _ survived  _ fighting a dragon. Go team? 

Of course, it couldn’t be  _ that  _ simple. Ravini absorbed… something from the dragon as it fell to ashes. The Nords called her Dragonborn for it. Irileth was skeptical. Ravini was silent, save for the occasional grunt as she took bone and scale from the ashes surrounding the dragon skeleton. But still! Team Lucien and Ravini the Dragonborn had lived to fight another day!

Of course, to be Dragonborn, she’d have to be descended from the Septium line. The one going all the way back to St. Alesia. If she were an Imperial or a Nord or, Divines, even a Breton or Redguard, this would make sense-- but an elf? A Dark Elf, at that? Someone had to have been adventurous in their… proclivities and not told anyone. Or-- or the Divines just liked her. 

He babbled about as much as they walked their way back to Whiterun. Ravini said nothing, except a mumbled  _ ‘here’ _ as she handed him a dragon bone for his research. She seemed disinterested in the matter-- or, not  _ disinterested, _ but… unwilling to talk about it. He didn’t press, of course. Not yet.

Not until after they got back to the Jarl and learned that, not only were they no longer criminals, they were  _ thanes _ . Of Whiterun! Or, well, she was a thane. The Jarl had handed  _ her  _ a set of leathers from his armory, an axe, and an absolutely massive greatsword made out of Skyforge steel. Lucien got a look and a thank you.

The equallities of that exchange aside, they were soaked to the bone, covered in blood and ash, and dripping mud all over the floors of Dragonsreach, much to the horror of the maids. Lucien was going to suggest finding a warm bed to crawl into when--

“Can we stay here for the night?” Ravini asked Baalgruf as though the man hadn’t made them endanger themselves not but an hour ago. 

Lucien stood there with his lip between his teeth, waiting for the fallout of what was almost certainly the greatest faux pas anyone in Skyrim had made since the death of the High King. 

Jarl Baalgruf looked at them and  _ laughed _ . “Of course! I will have them make room for you-- and, please, join us for dinner after you’ve washed up. I wish to know more about you two. After all you’ve done to save this city, you may rest here for as long as you need.”

* * *

A valet took the two of them to the guest wing where maids awaited them with eager hands. Lucien, used to such attentions, waited patiently as they undressed him of his gear and led him to a personal bath. 

Ravini, on the other hand, could be heard shouting at the maids and calling out for Lucien. He slipped out of his room just as a gaggle of maids came rushing out of hers, apparently kicked out by the new Thane of Whiterun. 

“She’s impossible!” cried an older one to Lucien, “She nearly struck one of my girls!”

He winced, thinking of the incident that got them into dragon slaying in the first place. Why she was so testy these last few days, he’d no idea, but-- 

“I’ll handle it,” he promised the older woman, though the call of his own bath was a siren song he dreaded to ignore, “Just give me a moment, please.” 

The woman gave him a look, up and down, before throwing her hands up. “Fine. If you think you can help, so be it.”

Lucien stepped up to the door. “Ravini,” he called, knocking gently on the door while the maids waited on standby, “Ravini, are you all right?”

“No,” she called back, poking her head out from the crack in the door, “They keep touching me. I don’t like it.”

“They’re just trying to do their jobs,” he soothed carefully, “They need to undress you to get you ready for the bath. They’ll launder your gear and make sure it’s well taken care of. I know much you treasure those furs--”

“I don’t treasure them!” she insisted, then sighed, the wrinkle between her brow pinching the mark there, “They’re ruined, anyways. I’ll be wearing the new armor the Jarl gave me. They don’t have to touch me  _ or  _ my things.” 

“Do you hate being touched that badly?” he asked with a sigh. 

“By strangers?  _ Yes!”  _

“But you can’t just hit them for touching you, Ravini,” he tried. The maids behind him murmured amongst themselves. He racked his mind for excuses-- anything to keep the gossip mill from turning the new Thane into a lunatic, “I know those scars must hurt, but--”

She slammed the door in his face. He sighed and turned back to the maids, smiling apologetically. 

“I’m sorry, she’s just… in pain, you see,” he said carefully, “It’s better to leave her to her own devices. She’ll come around eventually.”

The maids all looked varying degrees of skeptical, but let it go. They helped him back to his room and into a bath, and, eventually, the stresses of the day were washed away with all the dirt and grime caked to his body. 

It was well past supper when they finally emerged from their rooms, dressed in soft cotton robes and warm woolen slippers. Ravini looked less… wild dressed like that, he had to admit. Even with the various scars he knew were hidden beneath the robe, at least her hair was clean and brushed and the mud that had caked itself to her constantly was gone. With the wireframes perched on her nose and her hair in a ponytail, she almost looked like a scholar he knew back in the Imperial City-- 

“You’re staring,” she noted suddenly without looking at him.

He blinked and chuckled, “You look different with your hair like that, is all. You almost look like someone I know.”

“I  _ am  _ someone you know,” she said simply. 

“No, I mean--” he started, then sighed, “You look like a man I knew in the Imperial City.”

“I look like a man!?” she asked, offended and turning to face him.

“No! No, no, no, I mean-- you look related to him!” he said, biting his tongue, “A man named Ulemon. He has features similar to you-- like you could be cousins or something.”

She seemed to startle a bit, something like recognition flashing in her eyes, before they darkened. She put a hand on her hip and glared at him, “Because I’m a Dark Elf?”

“No--”

“You look like someone I know, too, actually,” she says, “Goes by the name Ulfric. Stormcloak? You might have heard of him.” 

He sighed rubbing his temples, “I’m not saying that because you’re a Dark Elf, I’m saying that because you have-- similar faces!” 

"Sure."

“Ravini!” 

“I believe you,” she said, obviously lying. 

“Ahem.” 

They turned to see a valet standing in the doorway to the main hall, looking between them with barely contained amusement. “Meals have been prepared for you two. Jarl Baalgruf had insisted that we wait until you are ready to hold a feast, but his children convinced him otherwise.”

Lucien nodded, while Ravini looked confused. 

“Will there still be a feast some time?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning, actually. For now, you two will be treated to dinner in the kitchens, if you do not mind…?”

Lucien blinked. A little unusual for two heroes to be asked to eat in the kitchen, but considering the late hour, perhaps not too unusual. He shrugged, and looked to Ravini who seemed far more interested in the prospect of food than in propriety. 

“What’s to eat?” she asked as they walked towards the kitchens. 

“It’s a smörgåsbord.” 

“A what?” they asked in unison. 

The valet coughed, and collected himself. “Ah, forgive me,” he said with an amused tone, “I forget you two are not of Skyrim. It’s a… variety of foods. Cheeses, cuts of meat, eggs, breads… whatever is not available, I or the cook can easily prepare for you instead, if you wish.”

The hunger settled deep in Lucien’s stomach made itself known with a low growl, and he did his best to laugh it off. “That sounds wonderful, if you can’t already tell. I’d be delighted to try some of Skyrim’s signature dishes. Your culture fascinates me!” 

“Truly?” the valet asked, “Many find us to be brutes. While it is true we are a people of warriors, let it not be forgotten how our mead is imported across all of Tamriel! Certainly, you’ll find our food to be the very taste of home.”

“Not my home,” Ravini mumbled bitterly, fiddling with the ties on her robe.

“Yes, I’m afraid we do not have any ash yams or hopper legs among our ingredients,” the valet said. If Lucien didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a bite of sarcasm in that tone, “But if you want something more familiar, we do have some salted bluefin from Winterhold. Perhaps that would satisfy your need for home?”

“Perhaps.”

Before Lucien could say anything to break the tension, they arrived in the kitchens. The fires roared and brought with them the scent of cooked meats and fresh bread, making the tendrils of hunger in his gut grip with greedy fingers. His eyes locked onto a large platter of sweets in the far corner, and he made a beeline for a sweetroll.

He took a bite. Sweet, moist, and spiced mildly with what had to be a blend imported from Elsweyr. He nearly cried. It was the most delicious thing he’d had in weeks, having spent most of it eating charred meat and thin soups. He scarfed it down with a swig of milk most graciously handed to him by the valet. 

Ravini picked over the options with a plate in hand, carefully taking multiple cuts of fish and meat with little regard for vegetables beyond baked potatoes and grilled leeks. 

“You should balance your diet a bit more,” he scolded lightly with a laugh, “You eat like you’re partaking in the Green Pact. All that meat won’t save you from scurvy!”

Ravini looked at him, pouting, and selected a single green apple to sit in the center of her plate. She gestured to it, “Happy?”

He chuckled, picking up his own plate and piling it on with a little of everything-- though, he’d admit, he went a little heavier with the sweets. With a tall bottle of wine tucked under one arm and a silver goblet tucked under the other, he walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, glad to finally be off his feet. 

Ravini, to his surprise, sat next to him, carrying with her a bottle of Cyrodilic sweet brandy-- some sort of cognac that had been popular amongst his teachers at the Arcane University. He remembered giving Ulemon a case of it upon his graduation. 

There was that connection again. His brain was itching at the tethers of it, chafing with curiosity, but he couldn’t place why it bothered him so much--

“You’re staring,” she noted, taking a great bite of what looked to be the bluefin the valet spoke of, “What’s on your mind?”

“Why did you choose that brandy?” he asked, deciding to be direct.

“I like it,” she said, “It’s smooth and goes down easy.”

“You’ve had it before?”

“Yes?” she looked at him like he was crazy.

“In Morrowind?” 

“Morrowind imports things, too, you know,” she said, pointedly not answering the question, “Why are you asking?” 

“I gave my Restoration professor some of it back in my school days,” he said simply, “It’s just familiar to me, is all. I was curious if it was popular in Morrowind.” 

She stilled at that, chewing slowly on her cuts of meat, before digging into the potatoes and leeks without even leaving time to swallow. She took three big gulps of the brandy to wash it all down, and looked at him almost-- defiantly? A glint in her eyes. 

He shook his head and sighed, returning to his meal. Soft breads and softer cheeses, paired with lovely cuts of salted ham and brined vegetables, oh my! A far cry from the lighter fare of the Imperial City, but by the time he was halfway finished he was well and truly stuffed. Ravini seemed to be in a similar predicament, barely able to chew through her apple she had so pointedly taken. 

She leaned against the table and rested her head in her arms, sleepily taking another swig of her drink. He almost followed suit, feeling sluggish and slow as the drink took him and the food settled warmly in his belly, but decided against it. If he rested his eyes now, he might end up….

Unconscious took him gently, leading him by the hand into inky blackness. As the light around him faded, he noticed the valet slip out the doors of the main hall and into the night. 


	6. Chapter 6

He awoke on a stone slab, limbs aching and a terrible tickle in the back of his throat. It felt as though his head had been stuffed full of cotton, then scraped out with a fork. His mouth was dry, and he shivered at the chill in the air, barely able to move-- even as someone shouted--

“He’s awake! Thank the Divines, get the Jarl!” 

He cracked an eye open, finding an unfamiliar wood ceiling above him and the sound of water trickling nearby. Bells tinkled in his ears and his body was overtaken by an uncomfortable tingling sensation, the tell tale marks of a healing spell. He looked to his left, and found a woman in a green robe tending to him.

“You’re lucky to be alive, boy,” she said, and he felt his heart stutter with panic, “You almost didn’t make it. That was a lot of poison.” 

_ Poison? _

He tried to sit up, flailing wildly as he struggled to even get halfway upright, before being roughly shoved back down, “Do you have cotton in your ears? Stay down! You don’t want to agitate your body any more than you have to.”

“Where’s Ravini?” he rasped, feeling his throat tighten around the words. 

“Over here,” came her voice from across the room, and he tilted his head to see her. She looked like she’d been through Oblivion and back, hair mussed from its ponytail and face gaunt and pale. She was lying on her side, wireframes folded neatly beside her, and gave a weak little wave, “Welcome to the world of the living.”

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Whiterun,” she answered, and he glowered at her.

“The Temple of Kynareth,” the woman in the green robes-- a priestess-- answered, handing him a cup of water, “The Jarl had you sent here after you were found. You’re lucky we’re so close to Dragonsreach. Had they’d been even a few minutes late, you’d be discussing this with a priest of Arkay, not I.”

He shivered at the thought, the cold seeping into his bones from the stone not helping in the least. “What happened?”

“That’s what I hoped you could answer,” said Jarl Baalgruf as he stepped into the temple with his attaché of guards, “You were found unconscious in the kitchens some time in the night, barely breathing. What were you doing there?” 

“The valet--” he began, before a violent cough wracked his chest, “He told us you moved the feast to tomorrow morning, and we were to eat in the kitchens. You’d prepared a--... smörgåsbord.”

“Smörgåsbord?” the Jarl asked, incredulous, “We’d prepared no such thing! You ate what was to be prepared this morning.”

“But….”

“We were told by your attendee that you had gone to bed,” the Jarl interrupted, stroking his chin, “And that you’d join us in the morning-- we ate dinner without you.”

“Attendee?”

“We don’t have any attendees,” Ravini said, sitting up. She seemed to be far more composed than he was at the moment, “My guess is this was the same person, tricking us both.”

“But why poison us?” Lucien asked, “And who would do such a thing?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have eaten the food,” Ravini said pointedly.

“But how could he know what we were--” Lucien started, then stopped. He cracked the heel of his palm against his forehead, chuckling weakly, “He poisoned all of it. All of the food was poisoned.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Baalgruf, suspicious.

“It’s what I’d do,” said Ravini with a shrug, “Leaves out the guesswork. And if you hadn’t found us, you’d have eaten it, too, yes? Killed the entirety of Dragonsreach in one go.” 

“But why leave the bodies out?” Lucien thought aloud, “Why not hide us? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe something went wrong. I don’t know,” Ravini sighed, “Do you have any enemies, Jarl?”

“Besides everyone involved in this blasted war? No, not a one,” he snarked midly, still stroking his chin, “I don’t suppose you two would have any enemies that’d wish to kill you?”

Lucien, who made it his prerogative to befriend anyone and everyone he met, shook his head. Ravini, on the other hand, seemed more than a little lost in thought.

“Ravini?” he asked, “Do you have anyone who’d want to kill you?”

She looked up and bit her lip, but shook her head. “None still left alive.”

The Jarl sighed, and rubbed little circles into his temples, “Can you at least describe the valet, see if it matches with the man who claimed to be your attendee?”

Lucien opened his mouth to try, but couldn’t think of anything beyond him being a  _ man _ . He hadn’t even paid the man much attention aside from their short conversations-- was he tall or short? Thin or broad? A Nord or someone passing as one? The facelessness of servitude had left his mind completely blank--

“He was a Nord, about Lucien’s height,” Ravini recalled, “Blue eyes, red-blonde hair down to his ears. Lithe and lean. Spoke with a thick accent, thought he was one of your people. Might have been part elvish, but only if it was a Wood Elf-- his ears had a slight point to them and his teeth were sharp. Double canines.”

Lucien gaped at her.  _ How did she remember all of that? _

“I… saw him?” Ravini said, looking at Lucien. “I remember everyone we meet.”

He flushed. Apparently he’d spoken aloud. 

The Jarl graciously stepped in. “That sounds like the man who claimed to be your attendee. He said he crossed the border as one of-- Lucien, was it?-- Lucien’s men. Was going to be looking after you during your stay in Dragonsreach.”

“My Jarl, we came into the city as prisoners,” Ravini pointed out, “How would we have brought a man with us?”

He sighed, clearly embarrassed, “I hadn’t thought of that. I just-- assumed.”

“As did we,” Lucien said, rubbing his forehead, “Damn it all.”

“There’s no use crying about it now,” said Ravini as she stood from the stone bed. She wobbled on her feet and stretched like a cat, slipping her wireframes back onto her nose, “Whoever he was, he’s likely long gone. But you should keep better track of your people from here on, Jarl Baalgruf. He almost killed us. You could easily be next.”

The Jarl looked offended for a moment, puffing his chest before sighing. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll have Irileth increase the guards around the hold. Thank you for your service. And… as a token of apology--”

“Please, I don’t want anymore weapons--”

“--You’ll be allowed to purchase property in my hold.”

Lucien nearly fell over. Ravini seemed to be in a similar state. “What!?”

The Jarl laughed. “I was going to allow it regardless, but I’ll ask Avenicci to set aside a small discount for you to purchase a home here. There’s a house, Breezehome, for sale, and it would be perfect for--” 

“No,” Ravini interrupted flatly.

Everyone in the room turned to her, shocked. “No?”

“No.”

Lucien gave a nervous smile, “What she means is--”

“I don’t want property in this hold,” she said simply.

Lucien winced and tried to salvage the situation, seeing great offense hanging over the horizon like a dark cloud, “We’ll-- we’ll have to think about it. It’s expensive to buy a house, after all.”

The Jarl squared his jaw a bit and straightened his shoulders, eyes never leaving Ravini. He nodded, clapping his hands in a far less friendly gesture than he might have intended, “Well! If you ever change your mind, I’m sure we’d be delighted to have you. Now, I’ll leave you to--

A great sound broke the sky. It sent dust raining down from the rafters, shook the walls to their very foundations, and even made the ground quake beneath their feet. It was a thunderclap in three parts, each one bigger, louder, more deafening than the last--

**_DO_ **

**_VAH_ **

**_KIIN!_ **

Ravini’s head snapped up at the sound. They all stood in silence, even as the water rippled violently in its pool and the animals outside panicked alongside the townspeople. The Jarl slowly, carefully looked between the two of them, awe clear on his face. 

“When you slayed that dragon… did-- did one of you--”

“Yes,” Ravini said, “I absorbed a power from it.”

“So it wasn’t just--” 

“No. It wasn’t just boasting.”

The Jarl nodded, taking a hesitant step back. “You’re-- you’re Dragonborn. Like--”

“Tiber Septium himself,” Ravini pursed her lips, eyeing a crack left in one of the rafters, “So I’ve heard.”

“But you’re--”

“An elf? A woman?” she looks to him, eyes glinting in the light, “So I’ve heard.”

* * *

It did not take long for them to explain the situation to the Jarl. He stood patiently, listening carefully and nodding to himself at particular moments. He explained the part about the Greybeards, filling in more of the Nord myth than Lucien had personally known of. 

The whole situation was awfully surreal, in his opinion. Never in his life had he expected to run into a Dragonborn and aid her on her adventures. Especially when that Dragonborn was… well, Ravini.

She was an odd one. Easily scammed and duped, but keen eyed and dexterous in ways he wasn’t truly prepared to deal with. Seeing her open a locked chest in the dark in less than fifteen seconds, or watching her sneak across an open field in the daylight, sniping deer and bandits alike with such precision that he swore those wireframes must be enchanted? Mere hours after she floundered her way through selling their goods off to Belethor? It was dizzying. 

Still, as they familiarized themselves with Whiterun through odd jobs and bounties over the next week or two, he had to admit that there was a certain level of appeal in sticking with her. Her  _ actions  _ were kind, even if her words weren’t, and she offered him a certain level of fairness he hadn’t expected from a kinda-sorta-mercenary. She treated him as an equal, not as a tagalong or-- worse-- a burden. He could almost--

“Lucien,” she called, pulling him from his reverie. He moved from his spot beside Arcadia’s Cauldron, watching her shift from foot to foot in that nervous manner she always did when something was wrong, “We have to go.”

“Where are we going?” 

“Away from here,” she said quickly, stepping out into the market and walking as quickly as she could without being suspicious.

“Ravini--” he called, trotting up behind her, “Ravini, what’s the matter?” 

She huffed a little, curling deeper into her cloak. She said nothing, not until there was a great shout from the markets behind him, and the guards rushed past. More shouts, pointing, and a few yells that sounded more than a little like her name floated out. 

“You wanted to go to Winterhold, right?” she asked and suddenly grabbed his hand as a clamor rose up in the marketplace and heads began to turn towards them, “Let’s go!” 

And, so, they ran. Out past the gates, past the farms, past the meadery. They took a sharp turn at a bridge and followed a winding route, only stopping once they were almost completely clear of any patrols. They ran until Lucien was completely out of breath, his legs aching from the strain. 

“What-- what did you do!?” he asked once she finally let go of him, “Why did we run!? Where even  _ are  _ we!?” 

She didn’t answer, instead dropping down onto a large rock and pulling out her map and a small stick of charcoal. She looked about half as exhausted as he was, and he dropped beside her as she made a small X above Winterhold on the map. He waited minutes for an answer, watching as she drew along the faint line of roads on her map, connecting that X to Windhelm, looping it around a lake, and stopping to a small point just outside Whiterun. 

“We’re… here, I think,” she said, tapping a spot with her finger, “Near the Loreius farm, see?” 

He did, in fact, see. A large windmill was in the distance, not too far from where they were resting. “And? What did you do?”

She paused, then, and grumbled something.

“What?”

“I….” she mumbled again, growing quieter with each syllable.

He leaned in close. “Excuse me?”

“I blew up Arcadia’s alembic,” she whispered, gripping the map tighter. 

_ “You what!?”  _

“It was an accident!” she insisted, “I was distilling some alcohol with some fire salts to see what it does-- and it explodes!” 

“Do you have any idea how expensive alembics are!?” he nearly screamed, and saw as she recoiled like a-- a scolded child! “We don’t have the coin to replace that!”

“Why do you think I ran!?” she snapped back, “I’m not an idiot!” 

“You mixed fire salts and distilled alcohol!” 

“I wanted to see what would happen!” 

“You should have asked Arcadia first!” 

“She wasn’t in the shop at the time!”

“You should have waited for her to come back!” 

“I know!”

_ “But you still did it!?” _

_ “Yes!” _

He wanted to scream. Nevermind all that he said about her, he was traveling with an idiot. Who knows how long it’d take for them to be welcomed back into Whiterun, let alone in Arcadia’s shop! Alcohol and fire salts! Why  _ wouldn’t  _ that explode! 

He buried his face in his hands, while she rolled her map back up and stuffed it back into her pack. How she could be so inscrutable and mysterious one minute, and utterly absurd the next, he had no idea! It was as though he were traveling with two different people, one a skilled hunter and the other a wild child. 

A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Did you at least ask to use the alembic first?”

She didn’t respond. 

He looked up from his hands to see her puckering her lips and looking off into the distance, clearly avoiding his gaze.

“Ravini!” 

“Why couldn’t I use it? It was just out there, free to use!” 

“Because it’s her--'' he stopped himself, feeling a monster of a headache coming on as he tried to puzzle out how to explain propriety to her. Did no one teach this woman manners? How old was she? 

“Is it things like this that got you nearly executed back in Helgen?” he asked pointedly. She didn’t wince, per se, but he could see her still suddenly as she gripped the edges of her cloak again. 

“No.” 

“What was it then?” he pressed, equal parts angry with her and genuinely curious as to whether or not she’d answer.

She sighed through her nose and looked at him. “I was caught trying to cross the border.” 

He blinked. “...that’s it? That’s why they tried to execute you?” 

She nodded. 

“But that’s-- that’s hardly an executable offense!” he gaped, “That’s to be met with a fine, at most!”

She stood and stretched, walking towards the farm in the distance, “Tell that to the headsman. He’s buried under some rubble in Helgen. I’m sure he’d agree with you.”

Lucien wasn’t sure what to say to that. So, he said nothing, instead scrubbing at the headache currently forming somewhere between his eyes and his brain. “You know we’re going to have to go back to Whiterun sometime, right?” 

“We’ll deal with that when we get there!” 

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic lmao comments and criticisms appreciated. thanks for reading!


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